^, /: 




\ 



^--c^. 



From the deep bosom of the emOowcrin-- 7i'Ood 
That castle rose.'" 



[Frontispiece. 



Tuge 14. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT 



A LEGEND IN VERSE. 



BY 



MRS. CHARI.es willing. 






PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1879- 



fr 






Copyright, 1878, by J. B. LtvpinCOTT & Co. 



To her dear memory, who my nursery hung 
With pictures of the lovely lady pale, 
The saintly Genoveva, and whose tongue 
Interpreted to childish ears the tale 
Of love o'er which no treachery could prevail, 
I dedicate my verse. Slow wane the years 
Since that blest presence passed within the veil; 
Yet still my heart the perfect music hears 
Of the sweet voice whose tone the legend old endears. 



The story of Genevieve of Brabant has been told 
in many ways, but historic incidents and localities have 
still been preserved, and still through every version 
runs the tale of woman's love and faith, fortitude and 
patience, of deliverance from great peril and preser- 
vation through years of hardship and exposure, of a 
wife's angelic trust, affection, and forgiveness, and a 
mother's pure, self-sacrificing devotion. Mrs. Jame- 
son, in her " Sacred and Legendary Art," assures us 
that it has afforded an inexhaustible subject for poetry, 
painting, and the drama, and there are beautiful pic- 
tures from the history of Genevieve by artists of the 
modern German school. Germany has, however, han- 
dled somewhat rudely the legend of " Genoveva," and 
France depicts her ** Genevieve" with a touch alter- 
nately frivolous and profane. England has been just 
to the beautiful and tender story, but has given it to us 
in fragments only. In the following attempt to repro- 



duce it in our own language, the saintly wife and 
mother bears the English name of Genevieve. " I 
tell the tale as it was told to me," when many a time 
at twilio-ht — the children's hour — visions of the silver 

o 

doe, the lovely boy, the forest glade, passed vividly 
before our eyes, and grew yet clearer by day, when 
the pictured story, in its series of softly-tinted 
sketches, looked down on us from our nursery-walls, 
transforming them into the galleries of Siegfried's 
castle, the aisles of the grand old wood, and the dim 
or fire-lighted cave. 

May the legend, doubly sacred to me, reveal to 
other young hearts glimpses of that purity and sanc- 
tity of wifehood and motherhood which dawned on 
our childish comprehension as we listened to it, and 
fill other young minds with lovely pictures of the 
mother and child in their forest-life, sustained, like 
His humbler creatures, by their Heavenly Father's 
care ! It sees the light only in the hope of aiding 
children and mothers to whom a harder lot than life 
in the forest is assicjned, — that of maintaininc^ in a 
crowded city the struggle of existence. To shelter, 
feed, and instruct the children of the Poor day by 



day, and thus enable mothers to earn their daily 
bread by labor, while the little ones are protected and 
cared for, is the aim of the Day Nursery, in whose 
behalf this volume is printed, and to which any means 
obtained by its sale will be devoted. It owes much to 
the kind and liberal aid of the artists by whom it has 
been illustrated. 

Philadelphia, 1878. 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



ENGRAVED BY J. W. LAUDERBACH. 



Subject Illustrated. 
t/ Siegfried's Castle {Frontispiece) 

V The Brabant Shore , 
V " Slow crept the Hours' 
^ Morning in the Forest 
^ Baptism of Hubert 
^ Evening in the Forest 
^ Warder on the Castle 
^ Hubert in the Wood . 

■ The Syrian Convent . 
The Barque in the Levant 

V The Return to the Castle 



Artist. 
F. B. Schell. 

E. B. Bensell 



F. B. Schell . 

E. B. Bensell 

F. B. Schell . 
E. B. Bensell 



Page 

20 

32 

45 

55 

64 

74 

97 

106 

114 

125 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



PART I. 



The day was over, and the golden light 
Of summer sunset faded o'er a scene 
Of tranquil beauty. Hill and plain were bright 
In their soft drapery of living green ; 
Slow winding on, the wood-crowned heights be- 
tween. 
Flowed the broad stream, while lifting far away 
Its hoary front, a castle caught the sheen, — 
And wall and battlement and turret gray 
Glowed in the mellow light of the departing day. 

2 13 



14 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

2. 

From the deep bosom of the embowering wood 
That castle rose, with bastion, keep, and tower, 
While blooming gardens round it many a rood 
Wafted rich incense from herb, leaf, and flower. 
There stood the fortress of the warrior's power, 
Here the soft solitude, the guarded nest. 
With dewy fountain and with rose-clad bower, 
And with fair, sculptured terrace toward the west. 
Where, wrapt in converse sweet, gay, gentle dames 
might rest. 

3- 

Here shadowy aisles of verdure stretch away 
To twilight grottos, mossy dells, within 
Whose cool recesses summer's sultry ray 
Was never felt, nor summer sunlight seen 
Save when the light winds lift some leafy screen 
And give, through lengthening vistas, to the sight 
The far-off minster tower, the tranquil scene 
Of wooded vale and waving upland height. 
Or fair and fertile mead bathed in heaven's living 
light. 



GENEVIEVE OE BRABANT. 15 

4. 

And who the heir of all this wide domain ? 
Who roams these bowers, this landscape fair sur- 
veys ? 
Look where upon yon casement's pictured pane 
The dazzling radiance of the sunset plays, 
Through the long gallery with its arches gaze 
To where yon chamber's draperied walls receive 
Its rich warm parting glow, for there its rays, 
Its dying rays, a wreath of glory weave 
About a fair young head, the head of Genevieve. 



5. 
Yes, she is fair, and pure is she as fair, 
That mother bending o'er her infant's sleep ; 
Round his low cradle flows her clustering hair, 
And her soft eyes love's vigils o'er him keep. 
Is it love's shining dews those soft eyes weep ? 
Do breathing prayers that gentle bosom heave ? 
No ! tears like rain the heavy eyelids steep, 
And sobs burst forth ; nor sobs nor tears relieve 
The bitter pang that rends the heart of Genevieve. 



l6 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



How gayly shone the laughing bridal morn 
But two short summers since on that young brow ! 
How glowed the rose of girlhood's blushing dawn 
On that soft cheek all flushed and fevered now! 
Siegfried, Count Palatine, the sacred vow 
With fervor breathes that binds him to her side, 
And as before the holy man they bow, 
Kneeling in love and youth and beauty's pride, 
Who deems that aught but joy can such a pair be- 
tide? 



7- 
For Siegfried drew from many a noble sire 
A name renowned for deeds of daring high, 
And the proud blood, whose unabated fire 
Flushed in his cheek and sparkled in his eye. 
Nor yet to Genevieve did Fate deny 
A stainless lineage, lofty as his own. 
But darkening shadows round her cradle lie, 
And quench the light in Brabant's halls that shone ; 
The mother dies, and leaves her hapless babe alone. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 17 

8. 

Yet sweetest sympathies had found their place 

111 her young life when infancy was flown ; 

With mien of beauty and with form of grace 

A gentle boy of Brabant's house had grown 

Like a young brother by her side. Alone 

In those vast cheerless halls, by them made fair, 

The children dwelt; since the great Duke had 

shown 
A kinsman's love and bade the orphan share 
The shelter of his home and its protecting care. 



9- 

Glad was the hour for Genevieve that saw 
The little Bertram with the holy man, 
The guide and guardian of his childhood, draw 
Near to the castle portal. Swift she ran 
With welcome warm ; with kind caress began. 
Half-motherly, to cheer the lovely child ; 
Then reverent knelt for blessing. Worn and wan 
The holy father o'er her bent, and smiled 
As she with tender cares their weariness beguiled. 



l8 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

lO. 

Of all her childhood those the fairest days; — 
Sweet days, slow lengthening into tranquil years 
Of peace and blessing Tones of prayer and praise 
Gladly that strange, secluded household hears, 
While the fair children, with attentive ears 
Gather sweet, solemn tales of sacred lore, 
And knowledge such as may their tender years 
And high estate befit ; and griefs and fears 
In Father Anselm's day approach no more 
The dark old keep beside the forest-girdled shore. 



But the sweet days of Bertram's childhood end. 
And with them all that cheered that ancient home. 
The growing boy to sterner tasks must bend 
Body and soul. To distant cities roam. 
Must learn the warrior's, courtier's skill ; the foam 
Of the salt sea must taste in wanderings lone. 
No more with Father Anselm shall he come 
To these gray halls. Henceforth to him unknown 
The sheltered nest where he from child to boy had 
grown. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT, 19 



12. 

Nor did it grieve him, for the tender child, 
Changed to the sturdy, gladsome, fearless boy, 
Asked for a wider sphere. The great world sinilec 
And beckoned, and he rushed with eager joy 
To learn its tasks and seek its large employ. 
Yet with pure heart and reverent soul he went; 
The world shall not degrade him, or decoy 
To aught ignoble. The brief parting sent 
Its pang through each young heart; then forth he 
rode content. 



13. 

And Father Anselm goes. His task is done ; 
Another tender, early tie is rent. 
With warm entreaty Brabant's Duke had won 
His service, but his years must now be spent 
In holy, hermit solitude. He went 
With blessings on the home he left forlorn ; 
But the lone child soon finds her sorrow blent 
With promise of a gladness yet unborn. 
News that her father comes, to bring a fairer morn. 



20 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

14. 

Alas ! he came not ; from his widowed home 
Great Brabant's Duke must lead his life afar; 
Must bide in camp or court, or farther roam 
In toils of State and sterner tasks of war ; 
And, for his girl, till convent gates shall bar 
Her life from perils, he with matron state 
And menial service guards her. He the Star 
Whose nearer shining all her hopes await. 
It sets; — the Duke is dead; — her youth is deso- 
late. 

15. 

The guardians of that sorrow-darkened home 
Gave wholesome care and their mute sympathy 
And reverent love, and left her free to roam 
'Mid Nature's sweet companionship ; her eye 
Might watch the sunset fade along the sky, 
Her footstep press the untrodden shore alone 
At purple eve, her ear might catch the sigh 
Of woods responsive to the wild wind's tone. 
Such were the ministries her childhood's grief had 
known. 




" IL-r eye 
Alight watch the sunset fade along the sky. 
Her f oof step press the untrodden shore alone I' 



Page 20. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 2 1 

16. 

Stately, serene, and gentle as a fawn 
Free gliding through the forest-coverts green 
She grew to girlhood. Beautiful as dawn, 
Pure as the dew. On her angelic mien 
Met dignity and tenderness, and in 
Each act and motion lived a heavenly grace, 
While, as sweet violets springing all unseen 
Declare their life in fragrance, on her face 
Had many an inward charm impressed its tender 
trace. 



17- 

Scarce had revolving summers ripened all 
Her maiden loveliness when, from the field 
The young Count Palatine, his lordly hall 
Revisiting, for short repose appealed 
In Brabant's ancient keep. Her beauty filled 
The barren walls with gladness to his sight, 
And the young soldier, nursed in arms and steeled 
To tenderer joys, confessed a new delight 
As he his love, his faith, his life to her did plight. 



22 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

i8. 

As a fair folded lily of the wave 

Grows by some lake's lone shore, her childhood 

grew; 
Idly the languid currents lift and lave 
The nursling flower; the cool dark shade it knew 
Of leaf and cloud, and night shed down her dew; 
Such was its life. Sudden the shadow cold 
Is by the sun's glad splendor smitten through; 
With starlike gleam the petals pure unfold, 
And lo! the lily's heart shines warm with living gold. 

19. 

Deep in her nature thus had lain the store 

Of rich and warm affections all concealed, 

Till Love's soft touch disclosed the golden ore 

And the full treasures of her soul revealed. 

Beneath that alchemy how sweetly thrilled 

The awakening heart ; Love filled the earth, the 

sky. 
With a diviner beauty ; Love unsealed 
Hope's sparkling fountains, bade the future lie 
Fair as a dream of Heaven before her kindling eye. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



20. 



23 



And to this Paradise did Siegfried bear 
The lovely prize that he had made his own, 
And bade the fortress of his fathers wear 
A gladness its gray walls had never known ; 
For her these fragrant gardens spread their zone 
Of bloom and verdure round the dark old towers, 
For her these fountains sang with silver tone. 
Beneath her spell in these long silent bowers 
Minstrel and bard beguiled the happy summer 
hours. 

21. 

Brimmed is life's cup with bliss for Genevieve, 
Fair mistress of domain so passing fair ; 
The day is winged with gladness, falling eve 
Summons to home's pure joys and pastimes rare. 
The dainty silk and wool her hands prepare. 
She shares sweet converse with her maidens gay, 
Or, courteous, makes some stranger guest her care, 
Or listens to the bard's low-chanted lay, 
Or bids o'er tuneful strings the minstrel's fingers 
play. 



24 GENEVIEVE GF BRABANT. 



22. 

But more than these delights, oh ! more than all, 
Is the deep blessing of a husband's love. 
Light on her happy heart the footsteps fall 
Of those soft hours that lead her forth to rove 
With him the pathways of the twilight grove : 
Green o'er their heads its dewy arches close, 
And brightly gleams the summer moon above, 
While from her lips love's murmured music flows. 
And warm on Siegfried's tongue the tale of passion 
elows. 



23. 

Yes, passion filled his being ; she the adored, 
The worshipped idol of his fiery soul ; 
No more his wild ambition madly soared, 
But in her love its object found and goal ; 
No longer on his slumbering fancy stole 
The busy camp, the battle's stern array; 
But fierce alike, alike without control 
Each impulse that his wayward heart did sway, 
Nor trust, nor calm repose within that bosom lay. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 25 

24. 

Still, as a lovely flower that seeks the beam 

Of the fierce sun, does Genevieve upraise 

To him her looks of love; still does he seem 

All bright and glorious to her lifted gaze. 

And still her pure and fearless heart she lays 

Open to meet that ardent soul's caress. 

Nor knows the exulting beam that round her 

plays 
May wither when she deemed it could but bless. 
Nor fears to trust her fond, adorincr tenderness. 



25- 
Swift sped the hours ; if fraught not all with bliss, 
Yet with such ills as love may cause or cure ; 
For hearts of jealous temper scan amiss 
The unconscious deeds of natures frank and pure ; 
But reconciliation swift and sure 
Dispelled each shadow envious passion made ; — 
Love's sweet and gracious handmaid if she lure 
His votary not too oft to seek her aid ; — 
The torch she still relumes in ashes soon is laid. 



26 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

26. 

Swift sped the hours, nor freighted all with bhss, 
Yet sorrow's cloud still from their zenith flies. 
Scarce seems to Genevieve its shade to kiss 
Her fair horizon ere she sees arise 
A second morn of love. Unconscious lies 
The bud of promise on the mother's breast, 
Fair 'neath the sunshine of the mother's eyes 
Unfolds its dawning life, securely prest 
To the warm heart that throbs with joy too deeply 
blest. 



27. 

And Siegfried bends above the lovely pair 
With all a lover's joy, a father's pride, 
Sees in the light the mother's features wear 
A dearer charm than graced the blooming bride, 
Renews each vow, and, kneeling at her side, 
Renounces doubt, distrust, and jealous fear, 
Swears that henceforth, whatever may betide, 
He will with holiest confidence revere 
The tender, trustful wife, so deeply, doubly dear. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 27 

28. 

And fresh within her heart a fountain wells 
By motherhood's sweet suffering new-create ; 
With loftier aims and nobler wishes swells 
The awakening soul. Life shall be consecrate ; — 
Life, rich in love, with joy and hope elate, 
Shall be not glad alone, but bright with dew 
Of holy deeds. Ah ! fires must renovate. 
Must melt and mould the argent ore anew, 
Ere glad and grateful hearts learn to be holy too. 

29. 

Across their radiant noon the shadow steals 
That, swiftly gathering, darkens all their day. 
The princely Charles Martel for aid appeals, 
Calls knight and noble, near and far away, 
To check the Moorish hordes who spread their 

sway 
O'er Christian lands. In vast and proud array 
They rally to his standard. Siegfried learns . 
With quivering heart the summons. Can he stay ? 
Ah, no ! the inglorious tenderness he spurns, 
And from home's paradise with knightly valor turns. 



28 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

30. 
As bright-winged birds that hear the storm afar 
And seek their woodland nests in haste and dread, 
With the first murmured note of gathering war 
The lovely band of maiden guests had fled. 
But o'er their homes the thunder-cloud had spread: 
Each lordly household shuddering heard the knell 
Of joy as sire and son to danger sped : 
Sweet maiden heads were bowed in anguish fell, 
And lovely maiden lips to lovers said farewell. 



31. 
And how the gentle dove within his nest 
And her dear fledgling now may Siegfried guard? 
Faithful retainers shall each tower invest, 
And the strong seneschal keep watch and ward ; — 
Hugo, the seneschal, cold, silent, hard, 
But, as his lord believes him, staunch and true. 
Ah ! baleful was the hour and evil-starred 
The gray Elfrida, with her sons, did sue 
For Siegfried's service; a false, base, and treacherous 
crew ! 



GENEVIEVE OE BRABANT. 29 

32. 

Within the castle long the glozing dame, 

Needy and skilful, had her sway maintained, 

And ruled supreme till its fair mistress came. 

For her bold sons their master's trust she gained ; 

At home, abroad, the younger, Rolf, remained 

The Count's near servitor, and still her power 

Elfrida o'er the menial band retained : 

Her lord she loved not, nor the tender flower 

Transplanted to his home in youth's sweet morning 

hour. 

33- 

Now in the castle court the chargers neigh. 
Ring the sharp spurs, the pennons wave in air, 
The lances gleam. One moment's fond delay 
As Siegfried's blessing, Genevieve's low prayer, 
Mingle in broken murmurs. To the care 
Of the strong seneschal and matron gray 
He yields her with a pang wellnigh despair. 
" Ah, Hugo ! guard thy lady well," he cries, 
" And my sweet babe. No longer must I stay." 
'* God be our guard, my love!" she low replies, 
'' A7id thine;' with faltering lips, then mute, uncon- 
scious lies. 



30 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

34. 
Clear through the noontide rang the trumpet's note 
While Genevieve all pale and lifeless lay : 
And now its strains in echoing distance float, 
And now in breathing music melt away ; 
Nor pulse nor motion aught of life betray 
In that sweet sculptured face and marble form, 
Till, with soft touch, the lovely child in play, 
Clings to her breast. Then surges the swift storm 
Of tears : she clasps her babe with sudden rapture 
warm. 

35. 
Yet rushes once again the whelming tide 
Of anguish over heart and brain. Alone, 
Save the dear, helpless infant at her side 
And his young nurse, she breathes her bitter moan: 
" Ah, Siegfried ! can I live when thou art gone, 
Who art my all, more dear than life to me ! — 
Friend, father, lover, husband, all in one ? 
Yet no ! not all; my boy, / live for thee ! 
Thy dear, dear father's face God grant us yet to 
see !" 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 31 

36. 

Unlearned in sympathy, the kindly nurse 

Now her sweet charge with noisy prattle charms, 

The cavalcade's long splendors would rehearse, 

Mimic the trumpet's shrill and loud alarms; 

The lovely lady yields him to her arms, 

And seeks by prayer and solitude to win 

Peace in her woe. Heaven shield her from all 

harms ! 
For she is young, alone, no friend within 
Her home, and the dark hours of pain and dread begin. 

37. 

Slow crept the days ; yet one fond hope fulfilled 
Brought solace to the heart whence joy had fled, 
News from her lord the first sharp pang has stilled 
And o'er the gloom a gleam of gladness shed. 
On many a fervent word her love has fed. 
Traced by his hand. Weary and travel-spent 
Full many a courier to her portal sped ; 
Still, with her fond response, returning, went, 
And, skilled in letters, Rolf and Hugo sent 
Still many a scroll and screed from castle and from tent. 



32 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

38. 

Slow crept the hours ; for now the weary day 
No tidings brings. The Palatine must gain 
The heart of France, must urge his arduous way 
Westward to Tours, then o'er the southern plain 
Down toward the mountain wall of sunny Spain. 
No courier comes, but rumors far and near 
Of shock of battle and of frequent fray ; 
No news from him to Genevieve most dear. 
With love and trust and prayer she strives to con- 
quer fear. 

39- 
The long, bright day declines. Across the plain 
The warder on the castle's utmost height 
Descries, slow winding on, a weary train. 
Seen clear against the sunset's waning light ; 
And, in their midst, a sorely-wounded knight 
Couched on a litter, tenderly upborne 
By men-at-arms, with face all deathly white 
'Neath the fair beard and waving locks unshorn. 
The warder gazed aghast, and blew his signal- 
horn. 




S/o7l' (! e// tJu lioui ^ , Joi innu t/ic u't'cay c/ay 



Page 32. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 33 



40. 
They gain the encircling wood, the castle walls, 
Their pallid burden toward the portal bear ; 
Now, at their near approach, the drawbridge falls, 
And in the hall they lay with tender care 
The helpless form, — a youth, with golden hair 
Enframing the wan brows. The court-yard rings 
With clamor; and in terror down the stair. 
Trembling and faltering, Genevieve half clings. 
Half falls; a stricken dove hasting with wounded 

wings. 

41. 
Beside the knight she drops on bended knee. 
" Bertram ! my Bertram ! Is it thou ?" she cries. 
" Oh, not the face, the form I feared to see, 
But thine !" The fainting boy uplifts his eyes, 
" My Genevieve !" in murmur low replies. 
" Summon the leech !" she calls. " Bring food, 

bring wine ! 
Haste, Hugo! haste, Elfrida! ere he dies! 
The eastern tower prepare ; the task be thine 
To nurse and tend him, and, thank God! 'tis also 
mine." 

3 



34 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



42. 
A moment o'er the chiselled features fair 
She bends, while tender tears begin to flow. 
From the scarred brow she lifts the clustering 

hair; 
Relief from mortal dread and pity glow 
On her sweet face. " Elfrida, Hugo, know 
Bertram of Brabant is the knight you see. 
Now let his followers gently lift, and slow 
And softly bear him. Tended let him be 
As would thy lord, for near and dear he is to me." 



43. 
Siegfried is safe, and Bertram she may save ; — 
A double joy gave warmth to every word. 
But Hugo, cold and silent as the grave, 
With dark suspicion the glad accent heard ; 
Sneered in his heart, " Aye, tended like my lord T 
The while his lips their servile answer spake. 
The leech is come. Reviving cordials poured 
Through the pale lips, the stalwart bearers take 
Their way. Slow follows old Elfrida in their wake. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 35 



44- 

Wounded in France in the first deadly fray, 
As Bertram fell he cried, " My body bear 
To Brabant !" and then speechless, lifeless lay. 
Slow journeying on, his sad retainers fare 
With their young, dying lord ; through sunset air 
See Siegfried's towers in golden distance rise. 
In that strange hall, where torches round him glare, 
A sister's face, a sister's tender cries, 
Greet him, as life's last light seems fading from his eyes. 

45. 
Through weary weeks the flickering flame she guards 
With pure, firm skill, and tireless sympathy ; 
Now dawning health her watchful care rewards. 
Tints the wan cheek and lights the languid eye. 
Weeks grow to months, his life one constant sigh 
For his far home, and for the fair young bride 
So nearly made his own by holiest tie. 
When 'twixt them swept war's fierce, o'ermastering 

tide 
And severed the young knight far from his darling's 

side. 



36 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

■ 46. 

This tale of love and sorrow, day by day, 
Told by pale lips in many a broken word, 
While still her patient prisoner Bertram lay, 
All Genevieve's sweet soul with pity stirred. 
Strong, glad, and free once more, the uncaged bird 
Plumes him for flight. She speeds him on his 

course ; 
Bids him secure the bliss too long deferred. 
Their kind farewells are said ; with youthful force 
Restored, at last he springs upon his eager horse. 

47. 

On the fair sculptured terrace toward the west, 
That crowns the steep and laurel-shaded height, 
Her lovely boy in her fond arms caressed, 
Serene she stands in morning's early light. 
Gay float the pennons, gleam the lances bright, 
She waves a last adieu to Bertram's train, 
Gazes till plume and spear are lost to sight, 
Then, turning, sees across the distant plain 
A courier band o'erspent, riding with slackened rein. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 37 



48. • 

High throbs her heart, alike with hope and fear. 
Tidings! yet, ah! what tidings? — of her lord. 
Bearers of joy or sorrow, they are here. 
Trenibhng she seeks her bower; she breathes no 

word, 
But all her fervent soul in prayer outpoured 
Asks for her Siegfried. Would that it were he, 
From war and danger to her arms restored ! 
Voices approach, and footsteps, — there are three ! 
Elfrida, Hugo—" Thou!— Rolf ! Is it thoiL I see?" 



49. 

With failing heart and quivering lip she cries, 
" Where is thy lord ? Art thou but sent before ? 
When comes he ?" With cold insult Rolf replies, 
" He sends me, but to tliee he comes no more. 
His woe, his curse art thou ! Thy sin deplore! 
Repent till speedy death shall set thee free ! 
These lofty chambers of the western tower, 
Until that day thy living tomb shall be ! 
Hugo and I thy guard, Elfrida holds the key!" 



38 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



50. 

Horror dilates her eye and pales her cheek, 
But firm her tone : '' My Siegfried is no more ! 
Were he not dead thou hadst not dared to speak 
Thus to his wife. False servant, bar the door ! 
I fear no tomb ! The cold earth closes o'er 
My lord, my love, and life henceforth to me 
Is sad as death. Would I had died before 
This bitter day ! Oh, take me back to Thee, 
Father! since that dear face I never more may 
see." 

51. 

Soul-struck, appalled, yet brave in her despair, 
She speaks in thrilling accents clear and low. 
Cruel and fierce Rolf answers her. " I bear 
His written sentence ; and thou yet shalt know 
By vengeance duly earned and sure, though slow, 
That Siegfried, the Count Palatine, thy lord. 
Lives, — but to curse thee as his deadliest foe !" 
Courage to anguish yields at that dread word, 
Sight fails and sense, her heart pierced with a keen- 
edged sword. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 39 



52. 
The dreadful hours go by ; the wide domain 
Lies in the last sweet light of summer days, 
While on the lofty casement's pictured pane 
Still the clear radiance of the sunset plays. 
Now through the noble gallery's arches gaze 
To where yon chamber's ample walls receive 
Its dazzling, dying glow, for there its rays 
A martyr's crown, a saint's bright halo weave 
About the fair young head of kneeling Gene- 
vieve. 

53- 
The prisoned wife, the mother pure as fair, 
Bends in her anguish o'er her infant's sleep, 
Round his low cradle flows her clustering hair. 
And her sad eyes love's vigils o'er him keep. 
No tender shining dews those sad eyes weep, 
No gentle sighs that tortured bosom heave : 
Hot tears, like rain, the heavy eyelids steep, 
And sobs burst forth, nor sobs nor tears relieve 
The bitter pang that rends the heart of Gene- 
vieve. 



40 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



54. 
Still she implores where none implore in vain 
Light on her path and comfort in her woe. 
Her bursting heart and her bewildered brain 
No single faithless thought of Siegfried know : 
" From that dear hand I fear no murderous blow. 
It is thy life, my boy, not mine alone, 
They aim at." Then swift, sudden memories show 
The postern key, by Siegfried made her own, 
Opening the western tower through caverned arch of 
stone. 

55. 

The time, the place come back to her again 
When half in sport he gave it to her care ; 
Amid her guarded treasures it had lain 
Forgotten. Swift she seeks and finds it there. 
The panelled wall she knows, the narrow stair 
Down to the vaulted way, the postern door: 
Dim dawns the light through mists of dread despair: 
The hooded gown that Father Anselm wore, 
Treasured for his dear sake, her hands unfold once 
more. 



PART II. 



That sad day's sun goes down; on draperied wall 
And pictured window dies the golden light; 
And o'er her deathly sorrow, like a pall, 
Gathers the welcome shade of falling night 
Scarce in the sky the guiding stars are bright, 
When through the darkness steals a trembling form 
With friar's gown and hood all close bedight. 
Pressed to her bosom, stilling half the storm 
Of anguish there, her babe lies tranquil, hushed, and 
warm. 

41 



42 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



2. 

Through shadowy garden-paths, where every flower 
Gave to the summer night its incense rare, 
Past her own fountain, past her rose-clad bower, 
Out through the dewy woodland arches fair, 
She trod with trembling haste, but tender care. 
Rapid, yet sure, her light, firm footstep fell, 
Pausing at sighings of the summer air, 
Then hurrying on through copse and bosky dell, 
Her heart to each dear scene breathing its mute fare- 
well. 

On through the long ravine, her little treasure 
Pressed closer to her breast ; on o'er the plain ; 
None but a mother's love, surpassing measure, 
Could strength and power from such dear burden 

gain; 
Swift fly the feet, the quivering nerves maintain 
Their steadfast effort. Now the distant hill 
She climbs, and still her eager footsteps strain, 
Before the rising midnight moon shall fill 
The world with light, to reach the forest dark and still. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



43 



4. 

On, on ! till like a wall across the wold 
Rises the ancient forest, vast and grand, 
And the great sanctuary's arms enfold 
And shield her 'neath God's own protecting hand. 
Her feet upon the mossy wood-path stand; 
Onward she presses o'er the untrodden ways, 
Till love no longer can her frame command ; 
Fainting, her darling on the turf she lays, 
And sinks beside him 'mid the forest's darkening 
maze. 

5. 
But now he lifts the bitter, wailing cry 
Of hunger; and the mother hath no food: — 
With fright and horror every vein is dry : 
For him her love each terror has withstood. 
The lonely perils of the darksome wood, 
The homeless misery, the fearful strife 
With dread exhaustion. " Father ! Thou art 

good ! 
Let not my baby perish!" Like a knife 
Still his sharp wail pierces each source of ebbing life. 



44 . GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

6. 

" Is it a dream ?" The silver moonlight stealing 
Through columns high, lay on a forest glade, 
Green bowery walls and grassy floor revealing, 
Checkered with softly shifting light and shade ; 
Sparkling and clear beneath the moonbeam played 
A crystal spring, with murmur sweet and low, 
And, wondrously, beside the babe was laid, 
Nursing him as her fawn, a fair, white doe, 
While through his rosy lips the pure, sweet milk- 
streams flow. 

7- 

'* Is it a dream ? or are we saved ?" she cries. 
Sheltered and fed by Power and Love Divine? 
" Is this the blessed rest of Paradise ? 
Are these the lights of Paradise that shine 
In pure pale splendor round us ? Ah, benign 
And bountiful and tender Father, deign 
To hear my thanks and praise !" Peace comes 
again. 
And floods with sleep the o'erwearied heart and 
brain. 




Then Q:atlicrs her dear babe elose in her loviiii:- an/is.' 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 45 

8. 

She wakes; the morning through the forest gleam- 
ing 
Clothes in warm gold tall trunk and tender bough, 
And rosy lights through leafy loopholes streaming 
Touch the small baby hand and cheek and brow, 
And tint the doe's pure form, that pillows now 
The little head with golden ringlets fair; 
O'er them green branch and vine and tendril bow. 
And bend and wave in wafting summer air. 
The grateful mother's soul is filled with thankful 
prayer. 

9- 

She plucks the spicy berries, and the fruit 
Of the sweet amber plum ; the great oaks fling 
Their acorns at her feet, and from the root 
Of chestnuts tall she sees fast ripening 
The stores which yet the autumn days shall bring 
To euard her life from famine's dread alarms; 
She drinks cool draughts from the refreshing spring, 
Asks God to shield her Siegfried from all harms. 
Then gathers her dear babe close in her loving arms. 



46 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

10. 

The milk-white doe rises and moves away, 
Returns and moves again. Then Genevieve, 
Dreading to lose from sight the only stay 
Of her dear infant's life, howe'er she grieve 
The lovely glade and crystal spring to leave, 
All sadly follows ; sees the gentle doe 
Lift the thick screen that vine and tendril w^eave, 
And, with lithe form and graceful head bowed 
low, 
A secret covert enter, gliding soft and slow. 



II. 

Bending, she passes 'neath the mantling vine. 
Stands in an ample cave, with moss-spread floor, 
Through the fair screen the flickering sunbeams 

shine, 
The grassy forest glade extends before 
The hidden portal, and the bubbling rill 
Sparkles beside it. Surely here of yore 
Some hermit dwelt. The wholesome crusts yet fill 
His dish ; his mossy couch is fresh and fragrant still. 



GENEVIEVE OE BRABANT. 47 

12. 

The gentle doe has gained her wonted home ; 
On the soft carpet now she couches, white 
As some fair creature formed from ocean's foam, 
Touched with pure gleams of wavering opal light 
When through the wafted leaves the sunbeams 

bright 
Caress her form. She lifts her soft dark eyes, 
And look and motion the dear babe invite ; 
With glad response the mother swift replies, 
And pillowed by the doe once more the infant lies. 



13- 

Thus passed the wondrous day, in murmured prayer 
And blissful rest ; by Genevieve the flight 
Of the swift hours unheeded. All her care 
She casts on Him who made her darkness light, 
Who guided every faltering step aright 
Of her dread journey, and will guide her still. 
In faith and hope she meets the coming night. 
Eats of the crust and drinks from the clear rill, 
And sleeps, while holy trust and love her bosom fill. 



48 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

14. 
Slow comes the pearly dawn, and every bird 
Lifts its clear carol as the morning breaks, 
And whispering tree-tops, by the light winds stirred. 
Breathe their low music. Genevieve awakes. 
In grateful, sweet security she slakes 
The thirst of nerve and limb. On honeyed fruit. 
Cherry and plum, her matin meal she makes. 
For the dear doe she plucks each tender shoot 
From chestnut-boughs, then gains the cave with 
flying foot. 

15. 
Now seated on the grass, her thick, fair tresses 
To-day all freshly bound, the wandering breeze, 
Wafting light locks, her sweet, pure face caresses ; 
The graceful forest creature stands at ease, 
Faithful and fond, beside her ; on her knees, 
Gently uplifted, sits the lovely boy, 
Drinking fresh health and life. The mother sees 
With fervent gratitude his sweet employ. 
And her sad soul breathes out in song its tender 
joy. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT, 49 

Ah, my baby ! sweetest treasure 1 
Findest thou a perfect pleasure 

In thy pure, delicious food? 
Dimpled hand and rosy finger 
On thy doe, caressing, linger. 

Thanking her, for she is good. 
I will thank Him, too, who gave us 
This dear sylvan friend, to save us 

In the wild and lonely wood. 



With no gems can mother deck thee, 
But the jewelled sunbeams fleck thee. 

Little darling baby mine ! 
Playing o'er our small green meadow, 
Ruby light and emerald shadow 

On my baby glance and shine ; 
In thy coronet could cluster 
None of fairer gleam and lustre, 

Though thou art of princely line. 

Listen, darling ! Once another 
Sorrowing, terror-stricken mother 

Fled by night to save her child. 
Thou shalt hear that wondrous story, 
For He was the Lord of Glory, 

She, the Blessed Mother mild. 
He will guide my baby's father, 
And my little flower will gather 

Yet from out the forest wild. 



50 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

1 6. 

In brooding tones like note of woodland dove 
At first the song in murmured music rose, 
While the full heart the measured accents wove : 
Then clearer from her parted lips it flows, 
Till now with faith supreme her bosom glows, 
And, with sweet, musing eyes bent on the ground, 
She, like the nightingale, forgets her woes 
In melody, and all the glade around 
Thrills with the fulness of pure, glad, harmonious 
sound. 

17. 

Pausing, the lady slowly lifts her eyes. 
What vision, glimmering through the distant trees. 
Arrests her throbbing heart with dread surprise, 
And seems the very founts of life to freeze ? 
Slow moving on a dark-robed form she sees. 
Nearer and nearer still the footsteps press ; 
The doe has caught the sound upon the breeze ; — • 
But silver beard and hands upraised to bless 
Calm her. The doe bounds toward its friend with 
fond caress. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 51 

18. 

And now the sacred garb quells all her fears ; 
The reverend form her looks with rapture greet ; 
She bends, her soul dissolved in gracious tears, 
And kneels in mute thanksgiving at his feet. 
She lifts her eyes ; his kind, dark eyes they meet. 
What dream of other days each sense enthralls ? 
" Peace to thee, daughter !" Low the voice and sweet : 
" Oh, father ! / am Genevieve',' she calls, 
While Father Anselm's arm upholds her ere she 
falls. 

19. 

"My child! my Genevieve! lone wandering dovel 
With this sweet nursling in the woods astray? 
On some gay journey hither dost thou rove. 
And hast thou missed thy escort by the way ? 
Where is thy steed, — thy squire? for far away 
I know thy own Count Palatine must be." 
" Ah, father, father ! for my Siegfried pray ! 
And pray for this, his boy, and pray for me ! 
Exiles from love, from home, from life itself are 
we." 



52 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



20. 

With many a bitter tear and rising sob 
She tells the strange, brief tale of woe and wrong ; 
Still 'mid her anguish quickening pulses throb 
With sense of sure deliverance sweet and strong, 
And tender childish memories thickly throng 
About her heart and lighten present pain ; 
The forest-girdled shore, forgotten long, 
The gray old towers come back to her again. 
Ah ! surely peace and joy are not forever slain. 



21. 

Then swift she cries, " But thou ! how cam'st thou 

here, 
My father ? What strange miracle is this 
That brings thy presence, chasing half my fear, 
And changing lonely terror into bliss ?" 
" Dear suffering child ! from danger's dread abyss 
God led thee to my very dwelling-place. 
Sore did my doe her little dead fawn miss. 
Two days I've sought a nursling in its place ; 
But lo ! its death hath saved this babe of noble race. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 53 



22. 

"The cavern's southern slope hath been my home 
Through the long years. There rises this clear 

spring, 
And there shalt thou with me, dear daughter, come 
And see my little garden blossoming, 
And this dear infant thither oft shall bring; 
But at this eastern entrance, with the doe. 
Thy nest shall be. All bright birds on the wing, 
And hare, and fawn, and kid, thy boy shall know, 
And pure, and strong, and wise in forest lore shall 

grow. 

23. 

" And thou, dear lady Genevieve, shalt be 
My daughter till that hour thy lord shall know 
Thy refuge and thy face again shall see. 
The grain that in the spring these hands did sow 
Together we will harvest. Thou shalt grow 
Familiar with thy forest home, shalt learn 
The grace of herb and plant ; and then I go 
To seek thy Siegfried, nor will I return 
Except with him for whom thy heart and being 
yearn." 



54 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



24. 

No words her thanks can utter, but her eyes 
Lifted in silent reverence to his face, 
And quenchless sobs that from her bosom rise. 
And the slow-streaming tears that gently chase 
Each other, and the sweet and tender grace 
Of outstretched hands, her gratitude express. 
Her baby lies within the fond embrace 
Of his kind arms : " Thee may God richly bless." 
She murmurs: "Scarce my heart can bear this hap- 
piness." 

25. 

" What name baptismal bears this darling boy ?" 
" Ah, father ! many a sacred duty lay 
Forgotten, for our life was only joy 
And pastime. A fair group of maidens gay 
Gathered to grace my baby's christening day ; 
But ere to Treves the messenger was sent, 
The holy man to summon, came dismay. 
For all the land with call to arms was rent. 
And haste and terror reigned until my Siegfried 
went. 




" — '■ Kneel r Father Anselm says ; 
The h'ight baptismal zvater thrice he pours, 
Breathes the Most Holy N'ame, devoutly prays. "' 



Page 55. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 55 

26. 

" Hubert he is!' ** Kneel !" Father Anselm says ; 
The bright baptismal water thrice he pours, 
Breathes the Most Holy Name, devoutly prays, 
And the dear infant to her arms restores. 
The mother's heart in glad thanksgiving soars. 
Her lips with rapture mute, her babe caress; 
Anguish and loss no longer she deplores. 
She feels the Hand, omnipotent to bless, 
Guiding her back to light through depths of dark 
distress. 

27. 

" Come with me, daughter!" In his arms he folds 
The little Hubert, lifts the leafy door, 
The mossy carpet treads, then strongly holds 
The mother's hand, for now the rocky floor 
Sharply ascends, and sunbeams play no more 
Beneath their feet : a chamber vast and high 
Extends around, and far above them pour 
Through one small rent, rays from the upper sky ; 
Beneath, charred root and bough and gathered ashes 
lie. 



56 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

28. 

" Here," Father Anselm said, " in winter nights 

I make, with ample fires, a second day. 

Yet neither curhng smoke nor wandering lights 

On trunk or bough my shelter can betray, 

Though the red glow on wall and roof-tree play. 

My corn and oaten food I then prepare. 

Set forth my little lonely board's array, — 

The carven dish of wood, the frugal fare, — 

This service, thou, dear child, henceforth wilt make 

thy care." 

29. 

Now to the left they turn and downward wend, 
And see far off the distant daylight shine 
Through the low arch toward which their feet de- 
scend 
Along the gradual rocky floor's incline. 
Beside the entrance feathery boughs of pine 
And spruce, for Father Anselm's couch, are laid, 
Curtained by climbing rose and drooping vine 
And by the sheltering pine-tree's fragrant shade. 
•' Is not our rock-built home both strong and fair?" 
he said. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 57 



30. 
He leads her forth. A labyrinth of pines, 
Mingled with fir and chestnut, clothe the hill 
On this its southern slope. Above, the vines 
Climb high, their globes of amethyst to fill 
In upper sunshine, while below, the rill 
A rocky basin for itself has made, 
And, from this clear source, wandering at will, 
Circles the hill and gains the grassy glade. 
And there is lost to sight beneath the forest shade. 

31- 
Beside the close-knit pines the oaten field 
Begins its lovely waving gold to show, 
The wheat its graceful, braided spears to yield. 
And the young, tender vines, pruned close and 

low, 
Ripen their vintage, and in serried row 
The humble bean-flowers shed their light perfume. 
All wholesome herbs, all healing plants that grow, 
Upon the hill-side's gentle slope find room, 
And sun and virgin soil perfect their generous 

bloom. 



58 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



32. 

Above the cavern's arch a way extends 
Through the pine thicket to the hill's steep brow, 
Where Father Anselm oft his footstep bends. 
He made the path when first his hermit vow 
Had led him here. He treads it still, though now 
Fast, vigil, lonely toil for many a year 
Unnerve his limbs, his manly stature bow. 
Weary to-day, he says, " My daughter dear. 
Ascend ! With Hubert and our doe I linger 
here." 

33- 
The rocky brow of the long southern slope 
She climbs. A glorious vision meets her eye ; 
The far horizon and the ample cope, 
For days unseen, of blue and boundless sky, 
The wide, wide forest, the grand hills that lie 
Beyond, and guard it with their rampart green, 
While through their gorges, farther still and high, 
The purple ranges of the Vosges are seen, 
And gleams the bright Moselle, winding in sunny 
sheen. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



59 



34- 
Silent, o'er the vast solitude she gazed. 
The beautiful, majestic hills alone 
At first possessed her soul. As one amazed, . 
Who, dreaming sweetly, wakes to pain, her own 
Suffering and loss now make their sharpness known. 
To rescue her boy's life at every cost 
Had been her care. Courage and hope had grown 
By self-forgetfulness. Now wildly tossed 
With dread, she fears lest more than life itself is 
lost. 

35. 
" How can I e'er forget 1 When June was young 
My garden-walks with dewy grass were sweet. 
And in my bower the summer roses flung 
Their wealth of glowing petals at my feet. 
My lonely heart in anxious sadness beat, 
But Home's strong sanctuary still was mine, 
And duly Hope each wakening morn would greet 
With promise that a cloudless sun should shine 
On happier hours. The tempest rose and swept me 
from the shrine. 



6o GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

36. 

" Oh, that the perfect peace," she sighs at length, 
" Of this fair forest world might fill my heart ! 
Ye steadfast mountains, pour your tranquil strength 
Into my soul, that I no more may start 
When through me lightning shafts of anguish dart, 
When thunders roll may stand unmoved, like you ! 
Might I but know where thou, my Siegfried, art! 
Might know thee still unharmed, still fond and true! 
I could be strong and calm if only this I knew." 

37- 
Down through the solemn pines she wends her 

way 
Till the close, fragrant ranks of vine-clad trees 
Open once more a vista to the day. 
Gazing below a lovelier sight she sees, 
Her boy at play on Father Anselm's knees 
Strokes his white beard and reverend face : beside 
Her master lies the silver doe at ease, 
To each dear friend by double fondness tied, 
With love full near to human tenderness allied. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 6 1 

She hastes to join them. " Father, is it far 
I've brought my boy from our once happy home ?" 
" Know'st thou where bright Moselle and silver Sarre 
Unite near Siegfried's towers ? Thence didst thou 

come 
Six toilsome leagues : — the road thy feet did roam 
Leads northward through thy lord's domain, and when 
I climb yon steep, the dim, faint spires and dome 
Of Treves, the holy city, meet my ken : — 
This vast and ancient wood the forest of Ardennes." 

39- 
" 'Tis joy to think that still I tread the soil 
Ruled by my Siegfried. But do men no more 
Visit this forest ? Is thy lonely toil 
The only means by which thou fill'st thy store? — 
If only here some way-worn wanderer bore 
Tidings of those afar, who fight, — or die! — 
The saddest news perchance might seem less sore 
Than dread suspense. Ah ! father, tell me why. 
And what this horror? this swift, sudden darkness 
o'er our sky ? 



62 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

40. 

" I should have seen the threatening cloud draw near. 
My baby's nurse, kind, innocent, and gay, 
Was banished ; then my Brabant handmaid dear 
Was summoned to her home ; so did they say. 
I watched their lowering looks from day to day, 
Yet feared not. Harsh discourtesy seemed brief 
And low annoyance. Siegfried's long delay 
And silence were my keen and bitter grief 
Now tidings come no more. God grant my aching 
heart relief!" 

41- 
" Thou shalt have tidings. Ere the summer moon 
Renews her orb, each month to Treves I go. 
Long is the way and I must tread it soon ; 
But ere I leave thee, daughter, thou must grow 
In household skill, whence the poor comforts flow 
Even of this cavern home. At Treves my store 
I still replenish, and the fathers know, 
At the old convent, all the great world's lore : 
My dear and faithful friends are they from days of 
yore. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 63 

42. 

" My holy poor I visit, and receive 
The Blessed Sacrament, and thrice I pray 
In the great Church, and then the convent leave, 
Gather my slender stores and take my way ; 
But first all news of battle or of fray, 
Or valiant deeds from the good monks I learn ; 
Then through the busy market-place I stray, 
And hear the crowd's light tattle. Then I turn 
Homeward, before the moon refills with light her 
urn. 



43. 

" That time I choose lest wayfarers should meet 
Or join me on my journey. Heretofore 
I shunned them, for my solitude was sweet, 
But for thy sake, my daughter, all the more 
Its least invasion now should I deplore ; 
Yet in my absence thou hast naught to fear; 
Our forester is old, he walks no more 
The wood, but still his eye is keen and clear 
And watchful, and his hut our forest entrance near. 



64 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

44. 

" And well he guards it. My delicious home, 
My peaceful hermitage for many a year 
Have been this cave and hill. No wanderers come 
Treading our tangled path, or thou mightst fear. 
Deep is the solitude, the timid deer 
From copse and glade troop fearless to our spring, 
Rippling its fresh depths in the moonlight clear. 
And myriad birds with morning light take wing 
From out these bowery vines. The woods with music 
ring. 

45. 

" Yet, thou ! — when I bethink me, thou didst pass 
Up our steep winding way, my Genevieve. 
E'en in the night, though light upon the grass 
Thy footstep fell, yet could I scarce believe 
That aught our watchful guardian could deceive. 
To leave thee with this doubt would be despair." 
'^ Father, with me in Brabant thou didst leave 
Thy hooded gown ; I kept it with fond care. 
It clothed us that sad night, and hid my flowing 
hair. 




'■'■The timid deer 
Fro7?i copse and glade troop fearless to our sprifig; 
Rippling its fresh depths in the moonli<rht clear.'' 



Page 64. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 65 

46. 

" Around us both it fell, a blessed screen 
From evil eyes, and saved us on our way ; 
And I am tall ; there was no moon ; and e'en 
If our dread journey had been made by day, 
Scarce aught could to that guardian's eye betray, 
Beneath the long, dark gown and ample hood, 
A wretched mother. * Surely,' he would say, 
* The father hath been forth on errand good. 
And, ere the moon arise, hastes homeward to the 
wood; " 



AT- 

** Thanks, thanks, my daughter ! all is clear again ; 
And I will go to Treves, and bring to thee 
Whatever tidings 'mid the haunts of men 
I gain of him thou fondly long'st to see. 
God send all good and gracious news by me \ 
Then light and glad my feet will hither roam. 
But keep thy soul from all repining free; 
Lift up thy heart ! believe he yet will come. 
And take thee to his arms, his fervent heart, his home. 

5 



66 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

48. 

** This dainty gown and kirtle that enclose 
Thy form in clear, pale olive tints, thy face 
Befit, as does the calyx of the rose 
Befit her, and in pure harmonious grace 
Blend with the forest hues. Ere long no trace 
Of beauty sun and dew to them will leave; 
But stores of flax and wool shall soon replace 
Them both ; for thou must sew and spin and weave, 
And toil ; the blessed friend of all who grieve 
Will touch, with healing hand, thy heart, my Gene- 
vieve. 

49- 

" And now our noonday meal we must partake, 
Then I, with midnight wandering weary, rest." 
Wild honey stored in gourds and oaten cake 
He brought. The simple, wholesome food he blest 
With upraised hand, and hunger gave it zest. 
" Now will I lead thee on thy homeward way, 
But come again when the sun seeks the west : 
At twilight I the holy office say. 
And from thy childhood thou wast wont with me to 
pray." 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 67 

50. 

They tread the gradual, long, ascending way. 
And, turning, gain the chamber vast and high 
Lighted by that one gleam of upper day; — 
A shaft of radiance now from noontide sky : — 
The sharp descent they reach ; below them lie 
The moss-spread couch and carpet as before. 
His ancient gown delights the father's eye. 
And, in its hood, the little dainty store 
Of garments for her babe that the dear mother 
bore. 

51. 
Then the clear sound of lightly ringing feet 
Along the rocky floor above them rose. 
As the doe's footstep, delicate and fleet, 
Pursues them, and her gleaming outline shows 
Treading the sharp descent. In sweet repose. 
Upon his mossy couch, the father lays 
The little sleeping Hubert down, and goes; — 
But first, with kind farewell, again he says, 
"At sunset, daughter, come to join my prayer and 
praise." 



68 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT, 

52. 
As day declines she seeks the southern slope. 
" Peace to thee, daughter!" the dear father saith. 
And peace descends upon her heart, and hope 
Revives, as, kneeling in the act of faith, 
Visions of love triumphant over death 
Hover around her. Naught shall e'er destroy 
Her perfect trust; and with her latest breath 
Blessings on Siegfried shall her tongue employ. 
Then peace and trust and hope are merged in holy 
joy 

53. 

Their vespers o'er, the father from the spring 
Draws the pure water, and light pine-twigs breaks, 
That Genevieve within the cave may bring; 
From these at first the flickering flame he wakes, 
Of branch and bough the ampler fire he makes : 
The blaze soars upward. From the rocky bin, 
His granary, the light, flat stone he takes 
That guards the precious oaten store within. 
Then bakes the wholesome bread, firm, delicate, and 
thin. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 69 

54. 

The little Hubert, in the ancient gown 
Securely wrapt, enchanted with the blaze, 
Laughs from the floor; beside him, couching down, 
His faithful doe her guardian presence lays ; 
While Father Anselm all the forest ways 
Of thrift and life-sustaining skill unfolds ; — 
His store of salt, his honey gourds, his maize 
In earthen jars, each little sack that holds 
Its healing herb, and sweet grapes pressed in vine- 
leaf moulds. 

55. 
And then his wondrous calendar of days. 
Through the long years maintained, with pride he 

shows : 
Each holy festival its page displays. 
Days of heroic deeds its record shows. 
And days to his own memory dear, and those 
Marked by some natural epoch as they passed. 
*' Now draws our long, bright summer to its close" 
He sighs; "this happy month is waning fast. 
Two days remain. To Treves I journey on the last." 



JO GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

56. 

" And wilt thou keep this calendar of days 
While I am gone from thee? And brief and clear 
Record whatever in the woodland ways 
Awakes thy wonder or thy joy or fear?" 
" Let me begin to-morrow, father dear ! 
A year to-morrow ! — oh, that day of joy ! — 
The day that gave my small Count Hubert here 
To mine and to his father's arms ! — the boy 
For whom our hopes foretold gladness without 
alloy. 

57- 
" Ah, well, my darling! lovely forest flowers 
I'll weave, and crown thy little brow of snow. 
And merry make thy birthday's passing hours; 
No loss of mirth or sweetness shalt thou know ; 
With flowers I'll garland too the lovely doe 
For thy small festival. At set of sun 
To the hill's brow, dear father, will we go, 
And show him where Moselle's bright waters 
run 
Beside his home, before our hour of orison." 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 71 

58. 

And thus the infant heir of high estate 
And fair renown — hid in the ancient wood — 
Holds his first festival. A happier fate 
He would not ask. All radiant, sweet, and good 
To him his forest life : — soft eyes that brood 
Unceasing o'er him in pure, silent love 
And tender ministry, delicious food, 
His mother's voice, like note of woodland dove, 
Breathing low music, and green, waving boughs 
above. 

59. 

With fragrant wreaths of vine and woodbine shed 
O'er him and o'er his doe, the boy they bear 
Up through the pine-clad way, his arms outspread 
In loving rapture, all things are so fair! — 
This his domain ! — but he shall be the heir 
Of nobler heritage ; — learn in the grand 
Old wood to know the secret Power and Care 
Evolving beauty ; feel the Secret Hand 
Lead him; and list the Secret Voice of Sweet Su- 
preme Command. 



72 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

60. 

" Before the dawn on yonder mountains glow 
I shall be gone ; but thou hast naught to dread. 
Yet stray not from this slope, the spring below, 
The cave, and grassy glade. How grandly spread 
The hills around us ! Ere farewell is said 
Sing to me, daughter !" ** Father, we were young 
When thou, while our sweet days in Brabant sped. 
Didst teach us the ' Laudate' in our tongue." 
" Praise Him on earth, all hills and mountains!" then 
she sung. 

Do ye not praise Him ? with your verdant crests 
Uplifted to the brightness of His heaven, 

Whereon the sunshine Hke His blessing rests, 
The flush of morn and purple glow of even ? 

Do ye not praise Him when the twilight pours 
Its tender, dewy stillness on your heads ? 

When the clear moon through midnight's silent hours 
Her flood of silver glory o'er you sheds ? 

Do ye not praise Him when ye wreathe and shroud 
With mist and darkness all your awful forms ? 

When round your brows ye twine the thunder-cloud, 
And echo from your heights the voice of storms ? 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 73 

But most of all to me ye speak His praise 

In the soft veil of beauty o'er you cast 
By the calm sunshine of these golden days ; — 

Fair summer's loveliest children and the last. 



A radiant mist that softens, not conceals, 

Invests your summits with transparent gleam. 

O'er verdant slope and graceful woodland steals 
The dim mysterious beauty of a dream. 

Are such the hills which in my Father's land 

My raptured eyes, unclosed from death, may greet ? 

Are such the hills o'er which, a glittering band, 
The white-winged angels press with shining feet t 

Yes ! but more lofty and more fair than ye. 

With softer radiance, caught from sunnier skies. 

Types are ye of the glory that shall be 
Upon those gleaming hills of Paradise ! 

Thus do ye praise Him ; — Him whose plastic Hand 
Strength, grace, and beauty to your forms hath given. 

God's glorious altars, — in His world ye stand. 
And waft the incense of His praise to Heaven ! 



PART III. 



Again the splendor of the sunset falls 

On Siegfried's ancient castle, and again 

From its high tower the warder's trumpet calls. 

Again a courier band across the plain, 

With drooping lance and plume, and slackened 

rein, 
Press, weary, on, the journey's end to gain. 
Beside them moves, with stately step and slow, 
A traveller, who brief shelter would obtain ; 
His silver beard and hair in sunlight glow, 
And o'er the long, dark habit of his order flow. 
74 




' Again the splendor of the sunset falls 
On Siegfried's aneient castle, and again 
From its hiirh to^ocr the ivardo^s tnimfct calls. 



Page 74. 



GENEVJEVE OF BRABANT. 



2. 



75 



At Treves he saw the weary escort halt, 
Water their steeds, and take their way again. 
Already his small sack is filled with salt, 
The ample pouches of his gown contain 
The promised flax and wool, but still in vain 
The distaff has been sought. He bids farewell 
To the kind fathers ; with the lingering train 
Waits in the market-place, and hears them tell 
News of the war, their lord, and all things that 
befell. 

3- 
" Peace be with you, my sons !" the father said. 
With courteous dignity, and took his way 
Beside them on the lovely road that led 
'Neath leafy arches, and ascending lay 
Above the bright Moselle. Before the day 
He will return and seek the distaff. Now 
His aim is fixed : to learn what these may say 
Of Siegfried ; where their lord may be, and how 
This wrong was done. He sees care on their leader's 
brow. 



76 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



4. 
'' Is thy lord well? — the great Count Palatine? 
Battle has brought to him, I trust, no harms, 
No grievous wounds? Afar the splendors shine 
Of his grand prowess and his skill in arms ; 
His knightly valor shields from all alarms 
These peaceful plains." " Yes, father, he can guard 
His land with prowess, but vile wizard charms 
Have wrought him woe, with thrust more deadly 
hard 
Than Paynim sword ; for knightly valor foul reward. 

5. 
" When from the siejje of Avignon he turned, 
Unwounded, but his heart with sorrow bent. 
Because for tidings of his home he yearned. 
While the swift couriers to his fair dame went 
With letters, none from her to him were sent. 
'Twas then, when weary and despairing, came 
Hugo's ill tidings, that with anguish rent 
His soul, and bowed his head in bitter shame, 
And all his being filled with fury, as a flame. 



GENEVIEVE OE BRABANT, yy 

6. 

"And she must die ! Perchance is dead ere now! 

Rolf was his messenger ; no deadly blow 

Would he withhold. He heard Count Siegfried's 

vow 
That she no more should life and freedom know; — 
The traitress whom he called his deadliest foe. 
But, with the dread belief that she is slain, 
Keener his anguish; farther must he go 
From this his home, in danger drown his pain, 
And o'er the mountains now he hounds the Moors to 
Spain." 

7- 
" Ah ! she was pure, was saint-like ; evil men 
Traduced her. I the lovely lady knew. 
When thou returnest to thy lord again, 
If his mood change, tell him that fond and true 
She was to him. More deeply he may rue 
His bitter loss, but it will calm his soul 
To know that she was stainless as the dew 
And his in every thought. The mists will roll 
Away, and secret crime will find its fitting goal." 



yS GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT, 

8. 

" To thee, then, reverend father, I confide 
That more than one grave errand brings me here. 
Henceforth, within Count Siegfried's home abide 
No more its recent guardians. He doth fear 
That they his word transcended. To his side 
Never will Rolf be summoned, from his hall 
Hugo is banished. Habit had allied 
His life to theirs, not love. Now they recall 
His anguish, and yet more, he doth distrust them all. 

9 

" He gives Elfrida means afar to make 

Her home. Her sons must seek the field. No 

more 
Hither he comes, nor needs for his own sake 
Their service ; and deserted as of yore 
Will be the castle ; as in days before 
Count Siegfried came, save that he still maintains 
The grand old gardens which he did restore, 
And still the ancient Brabant maid retains, — 
For him a life of lonely wandering remains." 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



lO. 



79 



Now, as they reach the castle, " Wilt thou bear," 
The father said, " a message to thy lord ? 
Somewhat of his I have within my care, 
And I would send to him a written word 
To pledge its safety ; but, upon thy sword. 
Vow thou wilt guard and give it him !" The oath 
Is frankly made. They enter : at the board 
Beside the guard-room's fire now seated both, 
The father clearly writes on tempered linen cloth. 



II. 

" Siegfried, Count Palatine. — The Lily flower 
Transplanted from the forest- girdled shore, 
And brought by thee to brighten thine ozun bower, 
Uprooted by the storm, blooms there no more. 
Bnt still it lives, and, starlike, as of yore. 
Unfolds its petals in serener air. 
Return to Treves I At the old convent door 
Ask for one known as 'Brother Anselm' there. 
He guards thy stainless Lily, pnre, and sweet, and 
fair:' 



8o GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

12. 

In flax and wool he bound the scroll ; and said 
Farewell with blessing, as he took his way : — 
When by the sound of steeds and footsteps led, 
Lo ! at the door appeared the matron gray. 
The father's kindly eye shot forth a ray 
Of horror, as she said, with treacherous smile 
And accent smooth, *' Good father, rest, I pray, 
For, doubtless, thou hast journeyed many a mile 
Beneath our castle's roof abide a little while." 



13. 

*' I must depart. Too long this brief delay; 
The scant remaining daylight I would save." 
"What shall we give thee, then, good father ? say!" 
*' Naught of the castle's bounty do I crave ; — 
Naught for myself, but for my poor I have 
Sore needs ; for those who better days have known. 
A distaff yet one precious life might save." 
" Ah ! thou shalt have our evil lady's own ! 
And round it I will bind her strong, warm winter 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 8 1 

14. 
" Thy lady ! where is she ?" " The bird has flown ; 
Fled with her nestling, to a land so far 
That ne'er will she return to claim her own. 
She feared the Count's just anger, from the war 
Returning, and betook her to the Sarre. 
Her silken cloak of clear pale-olive hue, 
Caught by the tide upon a rocky bar. 
We sent her lord, in token that we knew 
Her dead. 'Twas in that robe and cloak she slipped 
the postern through. 

15. 

" They who survive have better right than she 

Within these towers. And for the Count, her lord. 

He will outlive his pain, and yet will see 

Right merry days ; so he the Moorish sword 

Escape." The low, cold, jesting word 

Spoken, she turned away, and sought and gave 

The lady's distaff, and the garments stored 

For further use. " A prayer, at times, I'd crave, 

Father! unless perchance this deed my soul may 

save " 

6 



82 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

i6. 

The flippant, heartless phrase, the smooth, false tone, 
Sent deep abhorrence as a shuddering wave 
O'er him. " Gifts are bestowed by those alone 
Who own them. Of thy lady would I crave 
Freely this bounty. If in watery grave, 
As thou hast told me, her dear body lies, 
Of her sweet soul I ask it. From thee, save 
Due reverence to the dead in Paradise, 
Naught ask I." Righteous wrath flamed in his 
sweet dark eyes. 

Then to the escort, with kind, courteous tone. 
And to their leader, turned the holy man. 
"Adieu, once more," he said. " I must begone." 
His staff and burden took, and straight began 
His journey, while his eye in wonder ran 
O'er the vast rampart and the lordly towers. 
In his deep heart revolving many a plan 
For leading back to home and happier hours 
The wronged ones o'er whose lives this cloud of 
misery lowers. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 83 

18. 

Now as he nears the forest, all his mind 

Stirs with unwonted care, unwonted joy. 

The sweetness of the home he left behind, 

Fears for its new-found treasures still employ 

By turns his thought. " If aught should bring 

annoy 
To the dear guests while he is far away ! — 
May Heaven protect the lady and her boy !" 
He gains the wood-path ere the morning gray, 
And, as he treads it still, dawn grows to golden day. 

19. 

"This was the morn he promised to return," 
Says the dear mother, with expectance sweet. 
Of Father Anselm, and with thoughts that yearn 
For his kind presence. Tottering baby feet 
She tries to-day, in small advance, retreat. 
And steps uncertain, guided by her hands ; 
Then o'er the grass, her outstretched arms to meet, 
Making their short, swift flight. But now she stands 
Listening; then all her heart with grateful joy ex- 
pands, 



84 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



20. 



As, gleaming in the sun, the silver hair 
And the pure, gracious countenance appear, 
And the tall, stately form and features fair, 
Serene and sweet in reverend age, draw near. 
How bright the forest seems now he is here, 
Whose feet upon her service forth did roam, — 
The guardian to her heart from childhood dear ! 
" Welcome, my father ! Welcome to .your home ! 
See, Hubert and your doe with fond caresses come !" 

21. 

High o'er his head he lifts the lovely boy 
In strong, kind arms ; fondles the gentle doe : 
" Ah ! my dear daughter, none the perfect joy 
Of this warm, tender welcome home can know 
Save those whose lives have felt the cheerless flow 
Of years unblessed by human love ; for even 
Though precious was my solitude, yet slow 
Moved the still hours. Thank God that He has 
given 
Pure, sweet companionship on earth before He gives 
His Heaven ! 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



22. 



85 



" But news from Treves and from thy home I bring. 

For, farther than my wont, full many a mile 

I've journeyed. Gray Elfrida, flattering 

With smooth, false tongue and nature steeped in 

guile, 

I've seen, and fathomed every dangerous wile. 

I joined a courier band sent by thy lord. 

Siegfried is safe, unharmed !" A radiant smile. 

Then the swift rush of sobs arrests his word. 

Still, as she strove to speak, tears o'er the pale cheeks 

poured. 

23. 

"And where, my father?" " Far away, in Spain. 

From the dread siege of Avignon he turned 

Unwounded, but his heart, in bitter pain, 

Howe'er for home and thee, dear child, it yearned, 

Goaded by falsehood, each fond instinct spurned, 

Until the wrath by hate and malice fed, 

A fierce, consuming flame within him burned. 

From his own messenger I learned he sped 

Across the mountains, and the chase of routed Pay- 

nims led. 



86 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

24. 

" In guarded speech, yet clearly, I unmasked 
Then to the messenger the secret hand 
Of treachery. A scroll I wrote, and asked 
That loyal leader of the courier band 
To bear it with him to whatever land 
His lord may wander; and his solemn word 
Of oath exacted, that, as high command 
He my behest would hold, — sworn on his sword. 
These eyes will see Count Siegfried to your arms 
restored. 

25. 

" They told him you were dead, and then they sent 
Your silken cloak that on a rocky bar 
They said was found, the very night you went 
Forth from the postern, in the rapid Sarre. 
This was the pang that drove your Siegfried far 
From home and love. In horror and amaze 
Had he been led to curse his life's sweet star; 
But its swift setting darkened all his days. 
My scroll will guide him back to its clear shining 
rays. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. %j 

26. 

" Did you, my daughter, wear the silken cloak 
Of clear, pale olive hue on that dread night 
When from their murderous hands you swiftly 

broke, 
And saved your infant's life and yours by flight?" 
" No, father. Knowest thou not we were bedight — 
Hubert and I — in thy dark, hooded gown ? 
The silken cloak I left in haste and fright 
Where, on my couch, that eve I laid it down. 
Now to clear shape is treacherous falsehood grown." 

27. 

" Yes, daughter; it is fitting thou shouldst know 
The structure that Elfrida's hopes had framed. 
Ignoble is her life, her nature low, 
But she at power and high estate had aimed, 
And by left-handed, unblest union claimed 
The elder brother of Count Siegfried's sire 
As hers in secret spousals. While she tamed 
Her servile tongue, she nursed a smouldering fire 
Of low expectancy, toward which her base, mean 
plans conspire. 



88 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

28. 

** But while she schemed and plotted the Count 

died, 
And the young orphaned Siegfried was his heir. 
Then foiled ambition, envy, hate, and pride 
Raged in her heart, yet still the glozing air 
Of courteous meekness tongue and features wear. 
Failing to bring her sons to high estate. 
To mould their fortunes now became her care. 
From far she came to Siegfried's castle gate, 
And sued for refuge as a traveller wandering late. 

29. 

" A lowly guest at first ; the matron then 
Of the great castle ; every year her sway 
Grew firmer. Her bold sons, ere grown to men, 
Older than Siegfried, comrades of his play. 
And when, in boyhood still, he rode away 
To distant war, Hugo his seneschal 
He made. As servitor, with short delay, 
The strong young Rolf he summoned from his 
hall. 
Thus did he in his home this dragon's brood install. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 89 

30. 

** Naught knew he of their story, for afar 
Beneath a tender mother's eye had passed 
His childhood's years. This castle by the Sarre, 
Long since her death became his own at last, 
And soon Elfrida made her tenure fast. 
Then did thy coming circumscribe her sway. 
Defeat her sordid schemes. She saw aghast 
Her fabric fall. But Bertram's wound her way 
Made clear. From sordid schemes sprung crime in 
full array. 



31. 
" Thou and thy boy the sacrifice should be. 
On thy dear lord's swift wrath they counted well. 
Easy to them to feign thy death, if he 
Should not ordain it ; e'en as it befell. 
Now they believe that he no more will dwell 
In his own home, but rashly cast away 
His life in battle. Yet what evil spell 
Shall make his death her profit, who can say ? 
Cunning and guile full oft their votaries betray. 



90 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

32. 
" This tale to me did Father Marco tell 
At the old convent, his mild eyes aflame 
With fierce, indignant memories ; for well 
He knew the story of the artful dame, 
The handsome, false Elfrida ; much did blame 
The ancient Count, his peer and comrade then, 
For that he lowered thus his grand old name. 
His youth, the life of courts, the haunts of men. 
As Father Marco spoke, came back to him again." 



33. 
" This, then, their net," she said, " where foul deceit 
And treachery and ingratitude entwine 
Their hateful meshes round my Siegfried's feet, 
Whose mercy gave them home and place ; round 

mine, 
Who was to them a kindly friend ; and thine. 
Dear boy, whose innocence might charm 
E'en murderous foes. Thus ends a noble Hne, 
If an All-Gracious, an Almighty Arm 
Rescue us not ere long from secret deadly harm." 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



91 



34. 
" But He will rescue. None e'er ask in vain 
Of Him. He gave unhoped-for means to send, 
Through the swift courier, to thy lord in Spain, 
My scroll : who, if he find him not, will bend 
His footsteps still, where'er his master's tend. 
Wait with me here in faith and patience still 
Awhile. If Siegfried come not, I will wend 
My way to distant lands and seek him, till 
Or him or death I find, striving my errand to fulfil." 

35. 
" Pardon, dear father, pardon ! I will wait 
In patient faith and hope ; nor yet, with thee, 
Can I be ever wholly desolate. 
Deem not, though great and keen my misery, 
That I thy lone departure, thus, for me 
On far and dangerous quest could ever see. 
Here let me stay and learn with thee to toil. 
To fill, with thee, our little granary, 
To touch with skilful hand this fertile soil : — 
To weave this flax and wool, whose folds I now 
uncoil !" 



92 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

36. 

Speaking, from out the ample pouch she took, 
With smiles that dawn through tears, the bounte- 
ous store 
Of flax and wool ; the fleecy folds she shook, 
Delighted with their softness. " One thing more 
I crave, — the distaff, father ; for, before 
I left my youthful Brabant home, to spin 
I learned." " But the light burden that I bore 
Contains thy distaff; safely wrapped within 
Thine own warm robe, that from Elfrida I did win." 

37. 
And then the further tale is duly told. 
Of that eventful journey, and the day 
In kindly talk, and labors manifold 
And gentle sylvan pastime wears away. 
And many a day, and weeks in long array, 
In the dear father's calendar find place. 
September sees their little harvest gay 
Of grapes, and corn, and oats. October's grace 
Gives wealth of chestnuts large, dropped at each tall 
tree's base. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 93 

38. 
Then, in November, from the wood-paths near 
They store the fallen boughs to build their fire ; 
And now comes winter, kindly, yet severe, 
Moulding, with sculptor touch, each outline clear, 
Denuding swiftly" to pure, simple form 
All Nature's florid grace, yet holding dear, 
And cherishing, and hiding close and warm 
Each lovely thing, to bloom again from wreck and 
storm. 



39. 
The gentle forest creatures round them come, 
Seeking benign companionship and aid. 
And ask, in storms, the shelter of their home. 
Robin and hare and kid of Hubert made 
Their playmate. Still the small encircled glade 
Its verdure kept ; and on its grassy floor, 
With them and his dear doe, in sunshine played 
The happy boy, imbibing daily more 
Of rosy health and strength from Nature's wondrous 
store. 



94 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

40. 

Fearless and agile, strong of heart and limb, 
The gentle child in gracious freedom grew. 
Rejoicing in his welfare, still, through him, 
Light seemed each hardship the dear mother knew. 
The wool and flax were spun ; then swiftly flew 
Her shuttle ; for the father's skill had made 
A dainty loom, and, while the firelight through 
The cave at eve its glowing splendor shed, 
She weaves to soft, warm cloth her firm and slender 
thread. 

41. 

Then spring returns, another summer fills 
Duly its gentle round of peaceful days. 
While Genevieve's sad heart its yearning stills 
With daily toil, and daily prayer and praise. 
Familiar she has grown with woodland ways. 
And the sweet grace of household skill she knows ; 
But her dear lord his coming still delays, 
And though to Treves still Father Anselm goes. 
All news, save news of Siegfried, from the convent 
flows. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 95 

42. 

But now from Father Marco's generous store 
Full many a comfort to the forest flows : 
Fine wheaten cakes, dried figs, and prized yet more, 
Coverings of fur, when his dear brother goes 
Late in the season homeward; " For who knows," 
The father said, " if the cold winter night 
Be not too bitter for thee and for those 
Thy poor, whom thou dost guard, and who requite 
Thy care with grateful love, — thy solace and delight." 



43. 
Then first did Father Anselm, 'neath the seal 
Of solemn secrecy, to Marco's ear 
The story of the poor he guards reveal ; 
Tell him that now 'tis past the second year 
The noble lady with her infant dear. 
Escaped from murderous hands, have shelter found 
Within his hermit home. That he doth fear 
His message failed, sent by swift courier, bound 
To Siegfried, who, forlorn, wanders the world around. 



96 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

44. 

"And if another spring and summer waste," 
The father said, "and Siegfried is not here, 
A pilgrim to the Sacred Land I haste, 
For there I know that he has borne his fear, 
And anguish, and despair, when those so dear 
Perished, as he beheved, in watery grave. 
When I have sown and reaped another year 
I leave my tender guests, and go to save 
The lost one, if not yet engulfed in misery's wave. 



45. 
" But should he come while I am gone, and ask 
For Brother Ansel m at the convent door. 
Thine, reverend father, be the constant task 
To guard from dread mistake. I should deplore 
That he were told I come to Treves no more. 
My name the clue I gave. Skirting the rim 
Of truth, my words an air of mystery wore. 
Needs must I veil this news in symbols dim. 
Lest my small written scroll be never borne to him." 



/- . ^1 ".!!h i 




" Stately as a king, 
Does little Hubert, with his faithful doe 
And her ne7v fawn each footstep foHowini:^ 
Tread the fair woodland 7c>ays.''' 



Page 97. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 97 

46. 

Another summer wanes, Now to and fro, 
Among his subjects, stately as a king, 
Does little Hubert, with his faithful doe 
And her new fawn each footstep following, 
Tread the fair woodland ways. About him spring 
Rabbit, and hare, and kid, where'er he moves ; 
And bright, swift birds oft poise on hovering wing 
Above his head, and his own gentle doves 
Upon his shoulder sit; all living things he loves. 



47. 

And to the myriad forest growths he turns 
With dawning joy and wonder, as he sees 
Nature's sweet fine economy, and learns 
Her silent processes of change. The trees 
That feed the worm with tender leaves, the bees 
With honeyed blossoms, on the birds bestow 
The nectar of their fruits ; and when all these 
Are fed, their ample bounty shower below. 
To give his little lips the sweetest feast they know. 

7 



9$ GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

48. 

The mother's eyes feed on the lofty grace 
And glorious beauty of her growing boy, 
But more the gentle nature that they trace 
In look, and word, and action, makes her joy 
And Father Anselm's ; for their fond employ, 
And care, and pastime centre on the child. 
If deadly blight his earthly hopes destroy, 
From name, and home, and heritage exiled. 
Still let a noble life be his in forest wild. 



49. 
The father teaches him to know each tree, 
Each herb and plant upon their fertile soil ; 
To bow the head and bend the reverent knee 
And fold the infant hands ; and moulds his will 
Gently to tasks that may his baby skill 
Befit. The mother's words, clear, sweet, and strong, 
Full many a drop of wisdom pure instil, 
And as the young life-current glides along 
Ever her voice broods o'er it, sweet in childlike 
song. 



^ 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

Hush ! hush ! hear the note 
Of the dove through wood-paths float, 
Calling thee ! What says the dove ? 
Love ! she says, love all things ! love ! 



Listen ! listen ! 'tis the bee, 
Humming loud and flying free, 
Calls thee now. What says the bee ? 
Work ! for work is sweet ! saith he. 



Look ! look ! the merry hare 
Through the ferns and grasses fair 
Light, on tiptoe, frohcs gay. 
Leap ! he says, and spring and play ! 



Hearken now ! for on the wing. 
Far above thee, bright birds sing. 
Breathing music from the cloud. 
Sing ! they say, sing sweet and loud ! 



Love and work and play and sing ! 
Find delight in everything ! 
For our loving Father lives, 
And His joy to all things gives. 



99 



lOO GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

His each bird that sweetly sings ; 
His the bee on busy wings ; 
Merry hares that hghtly leap, 
Gentle doves with wood-notes deep. 

And He makes the blossoms fair, 
And the trees, that high in air 
Waving, all the summer shed 
Their cool shadows on thy head. 

Love Him ! thank Him ! He is good ; 
Giveth all His creatures food ; 
Guardeth all by night and day ; 
The DEAR Lord to Whom we pray. 

50. 

Then thought, uplifted from the forest home, 
Ascends in song toward that celestial height 
Where nobler ranks of being fill the dome 
Of Heaven, invisible to mortal sight. 
Oft, as she fondly deems, their convoys bright 
Lend glory to the aerial paths they tread. 
And her soul throbs, in hushed and awed de- 
light. 
With the vast pulse around, below, o'erhead ; — 
The Living Heart of Love by which all Life is fed. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. iqi 

Beautiful life ! beautiful world ! 

God's very presence around us lies, 
Hovering angels with pinions furled 

Silently bend from the happy skies. 

Cloud-wrought canopies veil them from view, 
Gliding in companies heavenly fair. 

Silvery white on the sapphire blue, 
Crimson and gold on the sunset air. 

Linger, bright visitants ! linger above ! 

Sentinel angels ! to you it is given, 
Holding your watch o'er the child of my love, 

To look on the face of his Father in Heaven. 

" Sweetly thy song was sung," the father said, 
As his loved guests he kindly hovered near. 
" Now the fourth summer shines on Hubert's head; 
Lightly they pass ; but thou, my daughter dear, 
Hast known privation, toil, and hardship here 
Too long. In faith and patience didst thou stay 
E'en as I prayed thee. Since the second year 
Closed of thy forest life, I fixed the day 
Within my heart when I would take my pilgrim 
way. 



102 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

52. 

*' When all our stores are gathered, can I best 
Hope thou may'st live without my presence here ; 
With winter, then, begins my solemn quest. 
Then days are short, and glowing fires will cheer 
The lonely nights. Tame creatures without fear, 
Merry and kind, will make the fireside gay 
For Hubert; and in winter less severe 
Thy lonely toil, when thou art wont alvvay 
To spin and weave and make our garments' small 
array." 

53- 
The day drew near, — the kind farewells were said ; 
The father did the holy office say, 
And ere with early morn the east was red 
Had left the forest. First his onward way 
Led him to Treves, and thence, near close of 

day, 
His path beside the bright Moselle he bends. 
Up the long Rhine his farther journey lay, 
Across the wide Bavarian plains extends. 
Slow wanes another year ere his long travel ends. 



PART IV. 



Meantime Count Siegfried, deeming she was 

dead, 
And base, though deeply dear, in bitter pain, 
As one who, frenzied, from his home has fled, 
Swept on from Avignon, and led his train 
Up the steep defiles of the rocky chain : 
Encountering and pursuing, now they find 
Their feet upon the soil of Northern Spain ; 
But many a soldier's grave is left behind. 
And bones of gallant steeds bleach in the mountain 

wind. 

103 



I04 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



2. 



Still on he presses in his hopeless pain, 
Till, of the remnant of that goodly band 
That marched from the Palatinate, remain 
A few lorn men on Barcelona's strand. 
Then Siegfried says, '* I seek the Sacred Land, 
Dear friends ! Will any thither with me fare ? 
If not, then clasp me kindly by the hand. 
Forgive the rashness of my wild despair. 
To land you nearer home, before we part, my care." 



3. 

Notas a soldier, but a pilgrim, turned 
The Count to sacred soil, and every man, 
Outworn with war, for home and country yearned. 
To Toulon's port, with western breeze, he ran. 
Landed the homeward bound, and then began 
His lonely wanderings. From the scanty few 
Returned to Treves, deploring their lord's plan 
Of pilgrim exile. Father Anselm drew 
His hope: that Siegfried fled toward Palestine he 
knew. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 105 

4- 

The long, long year of journeying is o'er, 
The father's weary step its course fulfils ; 
But he must strive to-day as ne'er before 
To reach yon convent 'mid the Syrian hills. 
Upward he struggles, while each worn nerve thrills 
With failing effort. Ah ! he faints, he falls ; 
But now, cool water, fresh from mountain rills, 
Pours through his lips, a gracious accent calls ; 
Strong, manly arms bear him within the convent 
walls. 



5. 
In the cool hospice laid, all pale and wan, 
O'er him the friend who saved him bows his head ; 
A pilgrim, but a young and vigorous man, 
Who, from his youth, a soldier's life had led. 
Weary, last night, he sought a tranquil bed 
Amid these hills, within the convent's wall. 
At sunset, now, upon his way he sped, 
Hastes toward the father as he sees him fall, 
Lifts, succors, bears him safe into the cloistered hall. 



I06 GENEVIEVE , OF BRABANT. 

6. 

On the pure brow and aged features sweet 

The glance of sad, young eyes a moment falls. 

" Pilgrim !" the father murmurs, " shouldst thou 

meet 
Siegfried, Count Palatine, say duty calls 
Him to his people. In his lonely halls 
Yet may the ancient gladness of his home 
Revive. 'Tis his delay my heart appalls. 
For he too long deceived, too late may come. 
Swiftly, oh ! swiftly, bid him homeward roam." 

7- 

The faint lips close in silence, and the gloom 
Of wavering darkness shrouds the appealing eyes. 
Not his the sobs that fill the lonely room, 
Nor the deep sighs. Lifeless and chill he lies. 
And many a Syrian sun shall set and rise 
O'er his unconscious form. On bended knee, 
" It is Thy voice, my God !" the stranger cries, 
" That calls Thy wandering lost one back to Thee ! 
That sends me, bowed with woe, my ruined home to 
see." 




• The faint lips close in silence^ and the gloom 
Of wavering darkness shrouds the appealing eyes.'' 



Page 106. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 



8. 



107 



E'en at the gate he bade the porter run, 
Call the kind monks, with food, and wine, and aid. 
They hasten to the hall. " Know'st thou, my son, 
This reverend stranger?" the Superior said. 
" Father, I know him not. As forth I sped 
My journey to begin, faltering and weak 
I saw him falling, ran to raise his head. 
I bore him here, then heard his kind lips speak 
Familiar names. No more their silence they wil 
break. 

9. 

" He dies, I fear ; but if the expiring flame 
Of life thy skill, thy kindly care, can save. 
Most fervent thanks, my father, thou may'st claim. 
And largesse noble shall this convent have. 
If life returns, one bounty I would crave : 
Tell him the pilgrim only left his side 
To do his bidding, and o'er land and wave 
Pursues his way, whatever may betide, 
To seek his ancient home and in its halls abide." 



I08 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT, 

lO. 

Still the swift courier sought his lord in vain. 
From Treves departing, on he pressed through 

France 
To reach, in seaman's guise, the coasts of Spain ; 
When, nearing Toulon's port, he sees advance, 
With drooping pennon and with broken lance, 
The small, disheartened home-returning band, 
And learns his rightful course by kindly chance. 
He follows, but is wrecked on Malta's strand. 
And many a realm he sees before the Holy Land. 

II. 

True to his lord and Father Anselm both, 
Through wandering and through shipwreck still he 

bore 
The jewels, and the scroll of linen cloth, 
Safe in the secret girdle that he wore. 
It was his errand home to bring this store 
Of costly gems to serve Count Siegfried's need ; 
He deeming, when he sought a distant shore. 
And rushed to exile with indignant speed, 
His train would follow, and their welfare he must heed. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 109 



12. 

For his own service single jewels rare 
Of his sword's hilt or poniard's sheath suffice. 
The faithful courier he had bade repair 
To Jaffa's port should unseen barriers rise 
Checking his course toward Spain. Now safely lies 
His barque beside the shore, and lingering here 
Day after day he scans with eager eyes 
Each passing form. At last ! at last ! draws near, 
Sadly, in pilgrim garb, the Count, his master dear. 

13. 

" Welcome, Count Siegfried !" "Godfrey ! loyal 

friend ! 
Waiting, unwearied, faithful to thy lord ! 
Ah ! fain I would thy wanderings here might end : 
But farther still I yet must strain the cord 
Of duteous service, escort to afford 
A reverend man, if still, indeed, he live. 
Take with thee followers, — spear and lance and 

sword, — 
Bearers and guides. Oh, may he yet survive 
To reach my home, and blessed aid and counsel give!" 



no GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

14. 

" My lord, I too have met a holy man, 

And bear his secret scroll prepared for thee. 

Near the Moselle awhile his journey ran 

Beside our own. He sought the hall with me, 

And on this linen cloth wrote clear and free. 

He bound me with a vow of high command 

To guard it till thy face I yet should see." 

Siegfried receives the scroll, unwinds the band, 

And, reading, veils his tears beneath his manly 

hand. 

15. 

At length he breaks the silence. " 'Tis the same. 

One whisper from his living lips were worth 

More than my home, my country, or my name. 

From the Moselle he doubtless journeyed forth 

On pilgrimage, to touch the sacred earth 

Of Palestine. I knew him from the North, 

For in our tongue his startling words were spoken. 

I think our very land his place of birth : 

But, e'en if not, pray him, by every token 

He has vouchsafed, to come before this clue be 

broken. 



GENE VIE VE ' OF BRA BANT. \\\ 

•' Now haste, my Godfrey ! Swiftly seek thy train. 
Divide with me the jewels thou dost bear. 
Here shall thy vessel by the strand remain 
Awaiting thee when seaward thou dost fare. 
If still the father lives, with tender care, 
In easy litter, o'er the mountain way 
Lead him. My homeward barque I straight prepare ; 
And fail not to the holy man to say 
Count Siegfried speeds to Treves his mandate to 
obey." 

17. 
The morning glowed along the eastern wave. 
And a gay barque rejoicing in her light, 
Free to the early breeze the white sail gave, 
And bounded gladly o'er the billows bright. 
Now the far Syrian shores are lost to sight, 
And grateful hope the seaman's heart beguiles ; 
No tempests toss, nor treacherous seas affright, 
On old Laconia's heights the daylight smiles. 
And fragrance round him breathes from sunny Grecian 
isles. 



112 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

i8. 

Nor hope elates the seaman's heart alone. 
Who looks, impatient, from that vessel's prow ? 
An eager votary from a distant zone 
By crumbling fane and ruined shrine to bow ? 
No, for a holier fane hath heard his vow : 
To seek the dearer shrine of home he flies. 
Some glorious Greek might own that lordly brow. 
The pure, firm outlines and the deep, sad eyes, 
The waving hair and cheek rich with warm sunny 
dyes. 

19. 

But anxious hope is whelmed in dread and pain 
As slowly sink and die the favoring gales, 
While baffling western winds their course restrain 
And press them back ; or deathly calm prevails 
And feebly flapping hang the idle sails. 
The deep, sad eyes dwell on the cruel sea 
In anguish. The rash ardor he bewails 
That led him thus his native land to flee ; 
Lest all too late return and reparation be. 



GENE VIE VE OF BRA BA NT. \ \ 3 

20. 

Through many a starless night and sunless day, 
Tossing, or cradled in unwelcome rest, 
In the Levant his hapless vessel lay. 
Her prow still veering from the longed-for west. 
But Siegfried in his yearning heart repressed 
The torture of regret, that, melting, grows 
To tender penitence. Then from his breast 
The first pure prayer of resignation flows. 
And in submissive faith his spirit finds repose. 



21. 

Ah, Siegfried ! bless the baffling winds, thy gain 
Lay in suspense, distress, and anguish keen ; 
Wholesome the knife of sacrificial pain. 
Healing, renewing, where its touch hath been. 
Now smile the clear, dark eyes with light serene, 
And self-control sits monarch on the brow. 
The sculptured features and the noble mien 
The gloom of dread remorse no longer know ; 
Radiant with finer, sweeter, loftier grace they glow. 



114 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT, 

22. 

Oh ! speed at length, good barque, and bear him 

home. 
E'en though the joy he looks for be not there ! 
If now within its halls the master come 
More than their ancient gladness may they wear. 



The marble terrace gleams in sunset air 
Lonely beneath the laurel-shaded height, 
And lonely lie the blooming gardens fair: 
Throbs the high heart, curbing with steadfast might 
Each pulse, as the dear scene glows through the 
waning light. 

23. 

The warder's summons to the portal calls 
The faithful few who guard their lord's domain, 
And joyous welcome rings within the walls 
As the dear, gracious face they greet again. 
" Brief rest within the hall awhile I gain ; 
At night to Treves I ride. Let my old steed 
Be ready ! So my quest be not in vain 
I come with fervent joy, among you to remain." 




Oh ! speed eit length, good barque, and bear him home, 
E'en though the joy he looks for be not there.''' 



Page 114. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 115 

24. 

Forth o'er the plain they sweep. The gallant steed 
Glorying, his master once again to bear, 
And the strong knight rejoicing in his speed. 
Sweet the familiar aspect all things wear: 
By the Moselle they bend, and oh ! how fair, 
Beneath the leafy arches gleams its tide ! 
But now to reach those walls his only care, • 
Within which, as he deems, doth one abide 
Who for his urgent quest will find a fitting guide. 

25. 

Before the convent gate he draws the rein : 
Swiftly and well the gallant steed hath sped ; 
But swifter yet the rush o'er heart and brain 
Of surging hopes. He bent his stately head 
Before the aged monk, and gently said, 
" Dwells Brother Anselm here ? for I would fain 
Greet him." " Alas ! we fear that he is dead :— 
Dear Father Marco knew, — did he remain. 
But long within his grave hath Father Marco 
lain. 



Il6 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

26. 

" Fie died in the deep night, and made no sign. 
At morn we found him cold within his cell, 
But on his lips a smile of peace divine 
Rested, and seemed to bid us kind farewell. 
None can the fate of Brother Anselm tell 
Since then, or whence he came, or whither went ; 
For as a holy hermit he did dwell, 
His life in prayer and deeds of mercy spent. 
We only know that North his homeward footstep 
bent." 

27. 

" Adieu !" with faltering voice Count Siegfried said. 
" Shouldst thou have tidings, let me hear, I pray." 
Dimmed is the eye's clear radiance, and the red 
That glowed on the brown cheek has died away. 
A sad, lone man, beneath the moon's pale ray. 
With vanquished hopes he turns him from the gate; 
Northward he rides, until the morning gray 
Dawns o'er him pacing sad and desolate. 
One chance remains. For Godfrey's coming patient 
will he wait. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT, 117 

28. 

Athwart the glory of the autumn wood 
The first warm gleam of morning sunshine came, 
The massive trunks like golden columns stood 
And bore aloft their crests of living flame, 
And branches bright with gems of every name. 
Dewy and silent lay the grassy glade, 
The encircling wood a minster vast became, 
O'er arching boughs long aisles of splendor made, 
On jewelled casements high swift light and shadow 
played. 

29. 

And through this glorious cathedral glide 
The votaries. Hand clasped in hand they pass 
'Neath towering chestnut arches, by the side 
Of the pure font more crystal clear than glass, 
And gently tread the floor of swarded grass. 
Lovely as angel forms in Paradise ; — 
A radiant, joyous child, with clustering mass 
Of soft, fair hair above the sweet, deep eyes, 
And outline pure, and cheek rich with warm, sunny 
dyes. 



Il8 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

The linen white, the woollen tunic fair 
Girdled above it, showed his vigorous knee 
And shapely limb, nourished by sun and air, 
And the small rosy foot trod light and free 
Amid fresh fern and dewy grass ; — but she, 
The lovely mother, moving in serene 
And stately grace and tender purity 
And glowing beauty, seemed the gentle queen, 
Like Eve in her young world, of this fair sylvan 
scene. 

31- 

A gown and kirtle of pale olive hue, 
Befitting as the calyx fits the rose, 
Unfaded by the sun, unharmed by dew. 
The graceful form in silken web enclose. 
Ah ! well the boy the treasured vesture knows; 
It is the birthday robe the mother wears 
Kept for his festivals. Around her flows 
The wealth of long, fair, rippling hair, that 
bears 
An ivy band above a brow untouched by years. 



GENE VIE VE OF BRA BANT. \ \ 9 

32. 
The bounding child forsakes his mother's hand 
And in the httle pannier that he bore, 
By his small fingers made, from willow wand, 
Gathers the burnished chestnuts ample store. 
" Look ! my dear mother, look ! all these, and more, 
Dear little merry brown fellows, I've found : 
From out the rough, green jackets that they wore, 
Through the thick leaves they leap with rustling 
sound, 
And, shining in the sun, lie on the grassy ground." 



33- 
The mother looks : love fills her smiling eyes. 
" My little merry brown fellow thou art, 
My Hubert! When I see the joy that lies 
Thus hidden for thee in the deep wood's heart, 
Ne'er would I from this refuge blest depart, 
So thy dear father could be with us here." 
From Hubert's eyes glad eager glances dart : 
" Oh, tell me of him now, my mother dear! 
And Roland ! Will they come before another year ?' 



I20 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

34- 
" Ah ! that is still the tale we love the best : 
Of thy dear father and his charger white. 
Then sit by me, my darhng boy, and rest 
And listen. Thy dear father is a knight ; 
And knights are kind, pure, brave ; for truth and 

right 
They give their lives, no falsehood do they know. 
Stately thy father's form, his cheek is bright 
Like thine, his fair hair waves, his dark eyes glow. 
Roland is silver white, swift, gentle, like thy doe. 

35- 
** And thou must be a noble knight, my boy ! 
'Neath God's ow^n care in the great forest nursed, 
Yet shalt thou grow to be thy father's joy. 
In what despair I bore thee here at first ! 
Now leaps my heart to think thou art not curst 
With weakness, pallor, all the ills that grow 
In lordly homes." Swift through the thicket burst, 
Just then, with graceful bound, the milk-white doe, 
Leaped o'er the glade, and couched beside them close 
and low. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 121 

36. 

Is the doe followed by some gentle deer, 
Slow gliding through the trees, and gleaming white? 
It gains the glade and moves in sunshine clear, 
A snowy steed led by a stately knight. 
The lovely, fearless boy, swift at the sight, 
Sprang to his feet with glowing face and smiled, 
Stretched out his arms, and called in deep delight, 
" My father !" Then one cry of rapture wild 
Rings forth, and Siegfried's arms enfold his wife and 
child. 

37. 
No words ! no words ! Tears veil each radiant face ; 
Low cries are pressed from hearts that throb too fast 
For speech ; and in that passionate embrace 
Of tried and chastened love the darkness past 
Is lost forever ; morning dawns at last. 
But Hubert's little face uplifted glows 
With gladness, yet with fear. A joy so vast 
Seems almost terror. Ah ! full soon he knows 
The double home of love those twining arms enclose. 



122 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

38- 

At length the sad sweet tale is told ; the doe 
By the fond father's grateful hand caressed ; 
Now the dear boy the milk-white steed must know, 
Must choose the bank where grass and shade are 

best, 
And see him tethered by the stream at rest. 
Then Siegfried, from the doublet that he wore. 
Drew forth a hidden packet, closely pressed. 
" This token of my bitter loss I bore 
Next to my heart, dear love, o'er every sea and shore." 

39. 

Above the robe of clear pale, olive hue 
He folds the silken cloak, then, deftly led 
By loving hands the secret portal through, 
Beneath the verdurous screen he bends his head, 
And the cave echoes to his stately tread. 
He climbs the sharp ascent ; the rocky floor 
He sees, the gathered boughs, the fragrant bed, 
The loom, the distaff, all the frugal store 
Of food ; then hides his face in manly weeping sore. 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 123 



40. 

" Weep not, my Siegfried ! Ne'er was lordly hall 
Fair as this cave to me since thou art here ! 
Abide with us until the evening fall, 
And see our glowing fire, our blithesome cheer. 
Before our reverend guardian, kind and dear, 
Good Father Anselm, left us, life was sweet 
And blessed, save for alternating fear 
And hope for thee, beloved one ! Now his feet 
Wander in distant lands, still trusting thee to meet." 

41. 
"Then Father Anselm saved the precious wife, 
The darling child my guilty madness lost, 
Rescued, preserved, restored me more than life. 
And he, the guardian and the generous host. 
Himself has paid the bitter, painful cost. 
Unknown, I met him 'neath the Syrian sky. 
Fainting and falling and by fever tost ; 
Unknown, he bade me swiftly homeward fly. 
God grant me yet the power to thank him ere I 
die!" 



124 GENEVIEVE. OF BRABANT. 

42. 

And Heaven, benign, that fervent wish fulfils. 
While rocked in the Levant Count Siegfried lay, 
To the lone convent 'mid the Syrian hills 
Godfrey has made his swift and eager way; 
Finds the dear father rescued from the sway 
Of dire disease ; — the veins by temperance fed 
Each impulse of returning health obey. 
Homeward with favoring gales their vessel sped ; 
And even now the twain the mossy wood-path 
tread. 

43. 
Then was there meeting such as this old earth 
Scarce in her centuries of life has known : 
The glow of gratitude, the gracious birth 
Of souls renewed by penitence, and grown 
Worthy of bliss through paths of pain alone. 
With joy too deep was every bosom filled, 
Till rose the father's tender, reverent tone 
In benediction ; then each heart was stilled. 
And peace o'erflowed the nerves with conscious rap- 
ture thrilled. 




" As sunset o'er the gloiving forest dies 
The lady Genevieve, 07i Roland white, 
Glides down the viossy wood-path.'''' 



Page 



GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 125 

44- 

As sunset o'er the glowing forest dies 
The lady Genevieve, on Roland white, 
Glides down the mossy wood-path ; her sweet eyes 
Dewy with memories, — glad with love's pure light, 
While, at her side, her noble, stalwart knight 
Guides the good steed, and by the farther hand 
Leads the fair boy, all rosy with delight. 
Beneath the moon at their own gates they stand ; 
And, entering, live to bless their happy, loyal land. 

45- 
Drinking from Nature's holy chalice still, 
To grand and vigorous manhood Hubert grew ; — 
Serene and glad of heart and firm of will, 
Reverent of soul and pure and brave and true ; — 
A stainless knight, who never falsehood knew, 
Who worshipped God and made the poor his care. 
Still o'er the wood-path his young footstep flew 
To Father Anselm aid and cheer to bear; 
And still around him pressed the forest creatures 
fair. 



126 GENEVIEVE OF BRABANT. 

46. 

Watching by Nature's fountain heads he saw, 
In ceaseless change, her steadfast order still, 
Through her fair sequence traced the loving law, 
In her majestic force the living will, 
And in her beauty knew the matchless skill, — 
The Master's Touch, — in endless blest employ 
All form, all life with grace and charm to fill. 
The Love, the Power, the glorious Beauty thrill 
The man's strong spirit with diviner joy 
Than in life's morning hour shone round the happy boy. 

47. 
And his dear mother, where the bright stream wells 
In rippling murmur, near the grassy glade, 
A forest chapel built. There silver bells 
Poured their clear music : there the father prayed, 
And there his reverend form, at last, was laid. 
" Our Lady's Church" its name ; and here, at rest, 
Where her young Hubert in his childhood played ; 
In this sweet refuge, this fair woodland nest. 
She sleeps, with him her love from youth to age had 
blest. 



NOTE. 



St. Genevieve lived in the days of Charles Martel, who, in 
some versions of the legend, is said to have acted as her champion. 
At that time Brabant (since absorbed in Belgium) existed as an 
independent dukedom. The Forest of Ardennes, which in Caesar's 
time was only bounded by the Rhine, still extended to the Moselle, 
including a vast territoiy within its limits. Tradition places 
Siegfried's castle at the junction of the Moselle and the Sarre, 
indicates a cave in the Laach region as Genevieve's shelter during 
her forest-life, and gives the name of the church, — " Die Frauen 
Kirche" — built by her in grateful remembrance of her preservation 
and deliverance. 



127 



